Through South Westland/Part 1/Chapter 1

by A. Maud Moreland

CHAPTER I.

THROUGH THE OTIRA.

The silence and the sunshine creep
With soft caress
O’er billowy plain and mountain steep
And wilderness—
A velvet touch, a subtle breath,
As sweet as love, as calm as death,
On earth, on air, so soft, so fine,
Till all the soul a spell divine
O’er shadoweth.

George Essex Evans.

Out of the town and along the dusty white road lined with trim houses, and gardens aglow with colour: on to country roads less dusty and with fewer and fewer houses, we rode forth one morning. It was six o’clock. The road-side herbage was drenched with dew. A grey-blue haze lay all over the wide Canterbury plains which seemed to stretch away to the farthest horizon, tall gum trees and fir plantations round the homesteads breaking the monotony of their flatness. Everywhere the crops were ripening to harvest; another week’s sunshine and the wheatfields that waved all golden now would be cut. Fruit ripened in the orchards, and summer was at its height.

It was a blue day. All objects, near and far, were tinged with blue under the New Zealand sky, and as the sun got hotter, everything shimmered and trembled in the heat.

We breakfasted at a wayside inn, and rode on again, and when it grew unbearably hot we sought shelter at a little sun-baked place called Kirwee: just a few houses beside the inn, and a cabin of a railway station alongside the road—for railways and roads share the same wide tracks in the plains. Here we dawdled away the mid-day hours till tea-time, and then as a little breeze sprang up we started to finish the forty-two miles to Mt. Torlesse.

The mountains had come into sight now. At first blue and featureless, then blacker and browner, the deeper valleys like splashes of purple. The first sight of their snowy tops made one forget the plains and the dusty road; our spirits rose, and we cantered fast along the wide, grassy margin. But we had lingered too long, and as we rode over an endlessly straight stretch, marked by clumps of black fir trees at regular intervals, the sudden-falling dusk came about us. The plain spread like a tawny sea to the foot-hills pushing out their purple headlands in cape and promontory:

“Darkly, like an armed host
Seen afar against the blue
Rise the hills, and yellow-grey
Sleeps the plain in cove and bay,
Like a shining sea that dreams
Round a silent coast.”

Beyond lay a dead-white wall—a ghostly barrier of snow—between two purple ranges. All nearer objects became black and indistinct. Suddenly, behind the dead-white wall an orange light grew up, palpitating up and up past the zenith, till the night clouds overhead blazed out in gold and orange as it caught their edges. We watched it spread from bank to bank. Then came another change. The gold turned rosy red, then crimson, deeper and deeper, till all the clouds were blood-red, and we rode on in a darkening world, our eyes fixed on the glory above. It passed as suddenly as it came, and nought was left but a clear green streak of sky above the snow to show whence the glory had come; and then suddenly we realized it was dark, that we were tired, and the night grown chilly, and if we meant to arrive in any decent time that night, we must bestir ourselves. There were still seven miles to do, but we were sure of our welcome, no matter at what untimely hour we arrived. At last in the dusk we rode up to the hospitable door, and the Master of Mt. Torlesse met us with a hearty greeting and bustled off the horses, making mental notes as to how unmilitary our pack-straps and accoutrements were, compared with his beautiful equipment! In fact, when we made our start two days later, we found many little alterations had been instituted. I was supplied with a treasure in the shape of a nose-bag, into which went all the belongings I might want en route, without troubling to open a pack. After a day’s rest we were rattled up betimes, and by four a.m. the Master of Torlesse was supplying our wants with hot coffee, and lecturing us on straps and the proper rolling up of our kit; and then rode with us the first three or four miles, to put us on our way. The Torlesse range lay grey and lifeless beyond the green paddocks and the crops round the homestead, and as we got among the stony hills the mist rolled down, alternating with bursts of sunshine. Everywhere stony rivers ran at the bottom of dreary valleys, with drearier hills rising up to stonier mountains, none over 6,000 feet, and all desolate. And when the afternoon came on, the rain came too, and we rode with heads down against a tearing south-west storm, that deluged us with sheets of water. Those were forty-four long miles. I only remember a wet stony road, the brim of my hat pouring a veil of water across my eyes and Transome’s figure in front in a long black oilskin and sou'-wester, bearing an absurd likeness to a fireman who had been played upon by the hose.

But all things come to an end, and we saw the welcome end-gable of the Bealey Hotel on a rise above us. The greeting we got was characteristic:

“Och! what-iver brought yees out such weather? It’s been raining here for a fortnight, and more! Shure this was a mad journey for yees to be making! Dear, dear!”

But once inside, our kind host and hostess gave us a warm welcome for they knew us well, and I was set down beside a roaring fire, my wet coat removed, and being offered “something hot” to drink, before I well knew where I was.

It made no matter that the hotel was already

taxed to its utmost: that men would have to sleep in dining-rooms—even in bath-rooms and passages—while women and babies filled the upper rooms. Somehow, there was a spare room for me—somehow, we had a good supper, and not one of the crowd but was made welcome. The congestion was all due to the Westland Railway terminus booking everybody who wanted a Christmas ticket to Christchurch—without any regard to the number it was possible to convey. At that time the railway on the west only reached as far as Otira, some sixteen miles from this, while the eastern section stopped at Broken River, at least as far away again in the opposite direction. Between the two lay the long coach drive, across rivers unfordable for foot passengers; up and down over the ranges, which would one day all be tunnelled and the lines connected. But that happy day was still in the future, and here was a crowd of thirty odd, dumped on the top of the Bealey, while their friends waited for them in Christchurch. Four coach loads had already gone; some of the men had walked, and the rest must wait till the coaches returned. Yet not one of them was grumbling—they only praised the kindness of the hotel in providing for their wants, and sat about, chatting and laughing, nursing their babies.

We made up our minds to go on next day, and, fortunately for us, the weather proved fine.

We crossed the Waimakariri in safety, getting a beautiful view of snow mountains and glaciers at the head of the wide valley—a couple of miles, perhaps, across. This is always a dangerous crossing, and when the mail-coach cannot get through, the mailman brings the bags across on one of the horses. Passengers under the circumstances, must have patience. It is told of a celebrated admiral whose coach was caught in the flood, and who was rescued with difficulty, that he remarked: “He had been at sea all his life and never been wrecked, till the Waimakariri River did it.”

Once across, we rode up the Bealey. The gorge wound among steep mountains clothed in great part with the southern beech; waterfalls were frequent, and fine views of snow-capped ranges. Then we got to the divide called Arthur’s Pass where are three small tarns lying on a mass of old moraine, which seems to fill the space between two parallel ranges. From one side of this the waters flow east, and from the other west. All this alpine meadow was beautiful with flowers: giant celmisias with satiny-white petals like enormous daisies, mingled with snow-white gentians, and the wonder of the Alps—the mountain lily.^[1]

It is a pure white kingcup with golden centre, the leaves as large as saucers, and often the flowers are two or three inches across. As usual in the New Zealand mountains, most flowers were white. The plants here are specially interesting, because of the meeting of outliers from east

and west. To a very large extent the western species do not grow on the east, except in certain places such as the Kaikouras, where the forest is very like a western forest. Farther south still, tree-ferns and pines occur; but, speaking broadly, the ranges on the east have beech forest, while the west has pine forest and a sub-tropical flora of its own.

The road ziz-zagged in loops down a steep descent above a torrent. Bare, forbidding rocks and screens of loose stones ran up on one side, and presently we arrived at a place where they had all run down in a terrific rock-slide. The road was gone. A forlorn coach and one or two buggies had been abandoned there, but already a narrow track was scratched across the face of the débris. We led the horses over the sliding mass, and gained the undamaged road beyond. The road-menders told us of the violence of yesterday’s storm which had wrecked the road, snapping off great forest trees, and strewing the track with wreckage. When we arrived at the Otira we found matters were in an even more congested state than at the Bealey. And still the people arrived! Not a bed or a towel was to be had, and at least sixty had slept there that night!

A young man was hastily evicted to make room for me (although they failed to clear out his personal effects), and Transome, after being promised a room, had to share it with two others.

At midnight the rightful owner arrived at my door and a parley ensued. He began by rattling the door violently. I assured him it was a positive impossibility I should get up to open it, and he went away quite peaceably, if somewhat aggrieved. Next day every one was sent forward in coaches and carts, some on bicycles and horses, all alike cheerful, though two days late for their Christmas festivities.

That was a glorious morning when we set out. The more sombre eastern colouring had given place to vivid greens; pine forest and ferns took the place of beech; above the gorge the snow peaks gleamed pure and sharp against the intense blue of the sky: it was enough to make the heart rejoice. And very joyous we were, as we rode down that sun-flecked woodland way, where the pinky track before us lay all mottled and barred with violet shadows. Bend after bend caught the morning sun as it poured a flood of golden light on tree-fern and unfamiliar foliage. Sometimes between the trees one caught sight of a snowy summit with mauve shadows on the snow, at the end of a purplish-blue vista. It was a fairyland of light and shade on dancing leaves, and on one side the river kept us company all the way: now swift and silent, eddying in blue-green streams, now tumbling over rocks in snowy foam.

Later I saw grander and more beautiful places, but the Otira taught me to love the road, wandering on and on beneath the trees, with its play of

light and shade, its mystery and silence. The forest spoke then in an unknown tongue, but it was then I first heard its voice.

We could not hurry: it was too beautiful, and when we came to an old-time coaching-inn with grassy paddocks by the blue river we stopped. Transome saw to the horses while I went to negotiate rooms. The place seemed utterly deserted though the doors stood wide. After a time the landlord appeared. He was of a rueful countenance. His wife, he said, “Was gone visitin’.” She had made up the beds before departing, but there was nothing in the house to eat.

“There’s not many comes this way now the railway’s running,” said mine host.

I cheerfully suggested eggs and tea would do us quite well. A still deeper gloom descended on him.

“There ain’t any hens,” said he.

“Cheese,” I remarked with shaking heart.

“Cheese and bread, and tea.”

“Haven’t any cheese in the house, and only the bit bread she left me before she went.”

We seemed to have struck bed-rock. A rattle of wheels sounded from the road, and at this critical moment a spring-cart drove up. Was it indeed another guest? With great deliberation the lady in it descended, and advanced, smiling, to meet us. She carried a basket, and there seemed to be things in the cart besides. Then she remarked: “When I saw you pass our place a little way back, I says to my husband, ‘Mark my words, they’re for Jackson’s and the missus is away’; and I’ve just brought along a chicken and things: I’ll do for you to-night.”

Here was a good Samaritan in very deed. Thus everything being comfortably settled, we strolled off to the river that had been calling to us all the morning. There was an ideal bathing-place in a deep backwater, where the rock ledges lay hot in the sunshine. When we returned, a most appetizing meal was ready spread for us on a clean table-cloth; and our kind friend did not seem even to thinly she had done anything out of the way. Leaving all ready for breakfast, she bundled into her cart, and drove away with a cheery “good-night,” pursued by our grateful thanks.

Next day was, if possible, even more beautiful. At times the country was less wooded, and views of blue ranges opened across the river; while on our left the spurs of the mountains were clothed with the crimson-flowered rata. The tree-tops were a scarlet glory—not an isolated tree here and there, but splashed over red as by a giant’s brush. There are seven or more varieties of this myrtle to be found in New Zealand; and although at first sight I was puzzled by the ratas, yet once the idea is put in one’s head that it actually belongs to the myrtle family, the resemblance is striking enough. This was the common Metrosideros lucida, a tree of exceedingly hard wood, growing to sixty feet or more. The petals are insignificant, but the

scarlet, brush-like stamens are nearly an inch long, growing in thick masses and covering the tops of the trees. Another variety is the rata vine,^[2] which climbs to the tops of the tallest forest trees; and their relative of the North Island, Metrosideros robusta, is perhaps one of the strangest. Apparently when the seed germinates high in the fork of some forest tree, it sends down roots to seek the ground. The roots join together and enclose the tree, gradually crushing the life out of it; but in the end it seems to become a tree itself. Specimens are known whose trunks even reach ten feet in diameter and the height of 100 feet. Later on we grew familiar with M. scandens, a climber with white flowers; and there are also a yellow and a pink rata. The leaves are dark green and pointed at both ends, and bear a certain similarity to each other in the different varieties.

We left the ratas behind, and rode down a straight vista of track between the brown pillars of the tree-ferns, with their beautiful fronds above our heads, to the little, old, forgotten inn at Taipo. Taipo means “The Devil.” At the door sat the owner, dozing in his chair, as he does the live-long summer day, for he is nearly blind. Everybody was old. The ancient servitor who took our horses was a toothless old Swiss, who babbled of the difficulties he had been put to to get his old-age pension. He had no birth certificate, and the authorities at last gave it to him on the strength of an old passport. He was gnarled like an oak, and bent with rheumatism. I sat down by our host, for he loved to talk of the golden days of fifty years ago, when he first came from the “Ould Country” to try his fortune in Australia. He sent his wife to fetch a chain he had made in those days to show me. It was made of nuggets, none bigger than a pea, which he had linked together with gold rings. “Surely that is very valuable,” I said. “May be a matter o’ fifteen pounds,” he replied, “but I would not part with it for that and more.”

Beside the house the brawling Taipo river sweeps down from the hills, where they said there was still much gold, could it but be found. Taipo was the embodiment of peace—a place to slumber in, for since the railway was made, fewer and fewer seem to care to spend their time as we were doing: the towns are the attraction for the country dwellers. We left it to its sleep, feeling host, servitor, and inn would soon all be at rest.

As evening drew on we entered a country which has been utterly changed by gold mining. Hills have been torn down, valleys have been made; the whole countryside was a series of scars and furrows on a gigantic scale.

Desolation spread around in blackened tree-stumps and heaps of stones, the mangled remains of what had been once the virgin bush. But it was all still and silent. Rude wooden tramways

still ran among the hills, and broken sheds there were, and sometimes a rusty engine; but the diggers had moved across the river, and we met no one.

The valley below us lay in a mist like thin blue smoke, through which the tree-tops pierced like domes and spires; high above the evening shadows two snowy domes were touched with rose and saffron. But the light soon faded, and our road wound down between the blackened tree-stumps to a forlorn little mining town of wretched wooden houses. It was called Dillmanstown, and seemed to be all saloons and “pubs,” and these mostly shut up. Vainly we looked among them for anything that seemed to promise a night’s shelter. When we asked for such, the men and women at the corner of the street stared at us increduously. Then they consulted together, and one sent for his wife, who appeared at the door with a baby in her arms. Giving us one look, she remarked shortly: “It’s Kumara they want. This isn’t Kumara! Go on a mile, and you’ll come to it.” So we went on what seemed a long mile in the dark, and came to Kumara, with quite a large hotel and ample accommodation for man and beast. Next morning saw us off early, for we had forty-one miles to cover. It was a still, grey English day, making the bush look colourless and cold, and the desolate diggings more desolate than ever. We passed little settlements with most of the houses shut up, or this part of the country has been worked out. Often peat-bog, ringed by gaunt dead forest, added to the dreariness, and beyond were desolate sandhills and a cold-grey line of sea. No life, no colour. A broken bridge, with ragged timbers unrepaired, and beyond that three miles of bare, flat road. Then a few houses appeared, and presently we were riding down the wide street of Hokitika, the chief town on this bit of the coast. There was a general air of hilarity abroad, and the town was full of holiday-makers. However, we got rooms in one of the hotels which, at any rate, commanded a magnificent view across a wide stretch of tideway, bounded by low, swampy shores shut in by forest. But far away—a hundred miles or more to the southward—like a mighty rampart standing out to sea, the Southern Alps rose up. The green Pacific rollers seemed to wash the base of those blue peaks and crests, which culminated in the great mass of Mount Cook, towering over all. Evening by evening we watched that unrivalled view, saw the long purple wall with snowy summits change to rose against a clear green sky that shaded upwards into azure—then darken gently as the stars came out and the moon rose, turning the snows to silver. Hokitika might boast a fine harbour, were it not for the dangerous bar and shoal-water at the mouth of its river. A long mole has been run out to sea, and moderate-sized steamers can lie alongside the wharf, close to the town. Here we found a busy little launch awaiting passengers for the Mahinapur Creek. I know that this and the lake are among the beauty spots of the West, but a wet day left us only the impression of weird swamps, where white pines grew out of brown water, their branches draped with streamers of ghostly white lichen. One gazed down eerie vistas of brown water, between dead or dying trees, as the launch passed between tall grasses and giant flax. When we crossed the lake, the wind blew wet and cold off the mountains, making wavelets that splashed into the boat; and we were thankful to land, and take refuge in a house by the railway-construction works. There was no possibility of walking in a wet, half-cleared swamp; and in company with twenty or thirty draggled sightseers we ate our lunch, and repaired to an empty railway carriage until such time as it saw fit to start on its journey back to Hokitika. This little line is the beginning of one which is to open up the Coast. Its first section will be twenty miles through swamps and forest to Ross, the only town as yet beyond this. At present it has got about half-way, and was being used chiefly by people wanting to make an excursion. The next few days for me were blank, as I developed a swelled face, which kept me in my room. Glorious weather succeeded that one wet day, and Transome made all the excursions alone. I was lying one evening by the open window, watching the purple shadows on the distant mountains. It had been a very hot day, and I had not seen Transome at all, he having started early for Lake Kaneiri. My door opened, and he came in very dusty and tired, and, casting himself down on a chair, exclaimed:

“I’ve done it this time. I’ve lost the Scorpion!”

“Lost her; impossible! She must be somewhere,” I answered; and visions of that wilful beast setting off on her own way home crossed my mind. I hadn’t the least doubt she would reach it, too, if no one interfered with her—she might be half-way back to Christchurch by this time!

“Well,” he went on, “I got to Kaneiri and an old fellow bothered me into going for a sail on the lake. It was a heavy old tub, and his sail was a fixture—would neither go up nor down; so he couldn’t sail against the wind, and I had to row all the way back. It was frightfully hot, and when I got back there wasn’t a sign of the Scorpion. We hunted for her everywhere, and I’ve walked back eleven miles with the saddle on my head.” He announced his intention of riding Tom over early next morning. When he got there, the old man met him with the news she had forced her way through the bush to a place some distance off, and was feeding with several other horses. They had to make a wide circuit to drive her back, but seeing Tom she gave up the game, and allowed herself to be caught without further trouble.

On another occasion she made off while Transome was bathing with her nose-bag on her head. He ran after her, but she struck into some bush, and as he had to return for his clothes, she got a long start. At last he caught sight of her standing

stock-still, and twisting her head round to look at him. She had run her neck into a loop of supple-jack, and owing to the nose-bag she could not withdraw her head. Her ladyship was fairly caught, and hot and cross as he felt, he could not help laughing at the reproachful look in her eyes.

At last we were able to make a start, and entered on the first stage of the Main South Road, which is like few other roads in the world. For seventy miles beyond Ross it is really a road (barring the lack of such things as bridges), and is travelled all the year round by a mail-coach and settlers’ carts—rivers permitting.^[3] It is beyond that its eccentricities begin, and ever as we went it became a source of deeper and deeper interest and speculation. At times it was there; at times it was not. The swamps, or the sea, or the rivers had taken it; then it would reappear, having left us for miles at a time, to extricate ourselves as best we might. Ross was to be our next stopping place, and I was very anxious to hear more about the gold-getting, which always fascinated me.

1. Ranunculus Lyallii
2. Metrosideros florida and Metrosideros hypericifolia.
3. Note.—The road, as far as the Franz Josef, is now a good driving track, with the main rivers bridged.